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I walk by Thoreau,
And give him a little smile,
While he laughs at the self-help book I’m shelving.
“Ha!” he seems to say.
“Why, you can find your “help” in the woods,
Where the fruit of mystery awaits you.”
I give Shakespeare a welcome glance,
As I hold a children’s picture book.
“Yes,” he explains,
“Let their minds become sharp
With the knowledge they discover.
Let their imaginations soar through the depths of life.”
Walt Whitman is contradicting himself
In a dusty corner as the morning light tickles him.
“Your very flesh is a great poem,”
He tells me,
“Marvel in the silent sun
To figure out your poem’s feelings.”
As I turn to leave the quiet sanctuary.
Ray Bradbury calls to me from a distant place,
His voice echoing through the building.
“There are worse crimes then burning books.”
“One of them is not reading them.”